Dawn arrived gently in the Comté of Eldenreach. In this far-flung corner of the kingdom, the new day unfolded slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the peace that blanketed the land. A silvery mist clung to the hollows between low, rolling hills, and the first pale light of morning painted the sky in watercolor hues of rose and gold. The air was crisp and sweet with the scent of dew-laden grass and distant heather. Nothing rushed here. Every sunrise was a quiet celebration, a soft unveiling of another peaceful day.
Nestled within this tranquil expanse lay the village of Stonehollow. True to its name, Stonehollow sat in a shallow valley carved long ago by the gentle bend of the River Thistlemere. The village’s stone cottages and timber-framed barns seemed to sprout from the very earth, their walls built of the same honey-colored fieldstone that dotted the surrounding pastures. Thatch and shale roofs sloped low over snug homes, many chimneys already puffing thin tendrils of woodsmoke into the chill morning air. A great elm tree stood guard at the village’s southern entrance, its ancient roots embracing a mossy stone boundary marker that had welcomed travelers for generations. Few travelers found their way to Stonehollow, as the village lay far removed from busy trade roads, quietly existing as its own peaceful world in the green solitude of Eldenreach.
On this particular morning, Stonehollow stirred to life with unhurried grace. The River Thistlemere ran through the village’s heart, its clear waters chuckling softly over smooth stones as it divided Stonehollow into two halves. A quaint stone bridge arched over the river near the market square, its old parapets wrapped in ivy and lichen. The bridge connected the eastern bank, where the inn, the baker, and the small chapel clustered around the cobbled market square. It led across to the western bank, which held a scattering of farms and cottages whose fields stretched out toward the sunrise. As the light grew, it caught the surface of the Thistlemere in glints of gold, and the first sleepy call of a rooster echoed somewhere beyond a barn.
In the market square, a few early risers were beginning their day. A baker’s boy pushed open the shutters of the bakery, releasing a welcoming breath of yeast and warm crust into the cool air. Across the way, Old Marta from the dairy farm rattled in on a cart, her milk cans clanking, to set up her stall for the morning market. The square itself was a broad patch of well-trodden earth ringed by a low stone wall. At its center stood a simple wooden post displaying the village notice board and a hand-painted sign that read “Welcome to Stonehollow.” A pair of sparrows alighted on the sign now, chirping as the village around them awoke.
For most of Stonehollow’s folk, the day was only just rubbing sleep from its eyes. But one villager had been up before even the sun. From a vine-covered workshop near the bridge came a steady, rhythmic clang, the unmistakable morning song of hammer on anvil that blended with the stillness like an old, familiar verse. Ormund the blacksmith was already at work in his forge, as he was each dawn, his labor part of the village’s waking ritual.
Ormund had risen while the stars were still fading from the sky. In the predawn hush, he lit a candle and moved through his adjoining cottage with practiced quiet. The cottage was small, a single story of fieldstone and oak beams that nestled snugly against the side of the smithy. It offered just enough space and comfort for the simple life Ormund had chosen.
He took a moment to kindle the embers in the cottage hearth, the faint smell of last night’s woodsmoke mingling with the morning chill. Kicking up a gentle flame, he set a kettle to boil and prepared a mug of his favorite herbal tea. In the dim light, the cottage’s humble details emerged. A hand-carved wooden rocking chair draped with a knitted throw sat by the fireplace; nearby, dishes from the night before were neatly stacked to dry on the plank table. On a small shelf by the window stood a few cherished mementos: a deer antler found on a long-ago walk in the woods, a faded illustration of his parents on their wedding day, and a small iron horseshoe he had forged as an apprentice, now kept for luck. These were the quiet signs of Ormund’s daily life, tokens of comfort that greeted him each morning.
Wrapping his work-roughened hands around the warm mug, Ormund stepped through a heavy oak door into the forge itself. The workshop was attached directly to the cottage, separated by a wall with a connecting door that he seldom bothered to latch. At this hour the smithy was cool and dim, smelling of cold ash and metal. Ormund moved through shadows to throw open the broad shutters on the workshop’s front window. Pale dawn light spilled in, illuminating motes of dust and the familiar clutter of his trade.
The forge’s stone walls were blackened by decades of smoke and heat. Along one side, racks of tools hung in orderly rows: hammers of various weights, tongs, chisels, and rasps, each in its designated spot. The large anvil stood solid and unyielding at the center of the workspace atop a tree-stump base, its iron surface gleaming faintly where countless strikes had burnished it smooth. Against the far wall lay stacks of raw material, iron rods and scraps waiting to be given shape. Beside them stood a barrel brimming with water, prepared for quenching hot metal. Every object had its place, and Ormund knew them all with the same ease and intimacy one feels moving through their own home.
He took a few hearty gulps of tea and set the mug aside on a high shelf, well away from any stray sparks. Then with a grunt of effort, Ormund heaved a scoop of charcoal into the forge pit and gave the bellows a steady squeeze. The fire from the previous day had slept low in the night, but under his care it woke again. Orange flames licked up hungrily as he fed them fuel and air. Soon the forge glowed with a hot, pulsing light that danced across the smithy’s interior. He worked with practiced ease, every motion deliberate and almost reverent. This quiet preparation was the moment he loved most each day. In these wordless minutes of coaxing embers to life, Ormund felt he was performing a familiar ritual that steadied him as surely as any prayer, a silent communion with flame and iron before the day began in earnest. The warmth began to push back the morning chill. Ormund rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt, donned his heavy leather apron, and slid thick gloves over his broad hands. In that pause, he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the mingled scents of charcoal, metal, and a whiff of the thyme and sage he’d hung to dry in the rafters. It was a perfume like no other, the very breath of the forge, and it filled him with a calm focus.
Before long, the ringing notes of hammer on iron joined the morning chorus of Stonehollow. Sparks flew in tiny starbursts as Ormund brought his hammer down in measured, musical rhythm. He was shaping a set of iron nails, a bit of small work to loosen his joints and ease into the rhythm of the day. Each clang resonated in the close air, echoing out the open door and window to mingle with the murmur of the waking village. In the glow of the forge, Ormund’s features were defined in warm light and dancing shadow. He was a sturdy man of middle years, with strong shoulders and arms hardened by decades of labor, yet there was a softness to his presence. His face, creased at the corners of the eyes and mouth, spoke of good humor and easy smiles. A short-cropped beard, the color of deep auburn touched with strands of copper, covered his jaw and mirrored the vibrant red of his thick hair. A single gold ring glinted from his left ear, catching the forge light with each movement. As he worked, those gentle grey eyes were intent on the glowing metal, and a faint smile played on his lips. He hummed an old folk tune under his breath, something he had picked up from his father long ago. Each note rose and fell in time with a hammer stroke. His attire was simple and well-worn: a tunic-style shirt of undyed wool beneath the protective apron, sturdy trousers tucked into scuffed leather boots. A few singe marks on his sleeves and small burn scars on his forearms were testaments to his years at the forge, but Ormund wore them like badges of honor. To see him at this moment, focused and content, bathed in the orange halo of the furnace, was to witness a man utterly at peace with his life.
As the final nail was shaped and cooled with a hiss in the water barrel, Ormund set down his hammer and removed his gloves. The flurry of work eased, and the smithy fell back into a tranquil quiet, broken only by the crackle of coals and Ormund’s own easy breathing. A beam of morning sunlight had crept through the open doorway, stretching across the packed dirt floor. Outside, he could hear the village coming fully alive now. Voices called greetings in the distance, a cart’s wooden wheels trundled over the bridge, and the ever-present rush of the Thistlemere flowed by. Ormund wiped his brow with a cloth and allowed himself a moment to savor it all. He could pick out the familiar creak of the bakery’s hanging sign across the square, still swinging on the iron bracket he had forged years ago. In the rumble of a wagon crossing the bridge, he heard the echo of the horseshoes and wheel rims he’d fitted for his neighbors. Every ring of metal in Stonehollow carried a bit of his craft, binding him quietly to the life of the village. In these gentle sounds and in the lingering heat of the forge, he felt a deep satisfaction. This was his world: the steadfast anvil, the kindly glow of the hearth, the slow melody of Stonehollow’s morning. It was humble, perhaps, but it was enough.
His stomach gave a mild growl, reminding him that a proper breakfast was yet to be had. Ormund chuckled quietly and glanced toward the cottage. He left the forge open to the fresh air and stepped back through the connecting door into his home. In the corner of the cottage’s kitchen space sat a large clay pot and a collection of dried herbs hanging above it. This was his soup pot, and today was the day he had planned to simmer his weekly potage. It was a thick, hearty vegetable soup that had been a tradition in his household for years. Every week, he made it a little differently depending on what the season offered, and now the autumn squashes were coming into their prime. Ormund imagined the rich, sweet flavor they would add, the way they would dissolve into golden ribbons in the broth.
He reached into a wicker basket near the cupboard where he typically stored his produce from the last market day. His gnarled hand searched through a few potatoes, an onion or two, and came up empty where the squashes should have been. Furrowing his brow in mild surprise, Ormund peered into the basket. Nothing. He realized he’d used the last of his squashes in last week’s potage. A small smile touched his lips at his own forgetfulness. “Well then,” he murmured to himself in a gravelly voice warmed by humor, “looks like I’ll be visiting the market after all.”
It was a simple problem with a simple solution. Wiping the lingering soot from his hands onto his apron, Ormund unfastened it and hung the heavy leather carefully on its peg by the door. He tidied himself as best he could. Although no villager would mind a bit of ash on his sleeves, he still took pride in maintaining a neat appearance. He then grabbed a woven willow basket from beside the door. Before leaving, he banked the forge fire for safety, closing the vent partway and ensuring no stray sparks would misbehave while he was out. Satisfied, Ormund stepped out into the full morning light.
The village greeted him with its gentle bustle. Across the bridge, he could see a handful of stalls now arrayed in the market square: bursts of color from vegetables and cloth under the soft sun. The sky was a clear, pale blue, promising a fine day ahead. Ormund drew in a breath of cool air tinged with the scent of river water and distant chimney smoke. With a final glance over his cottage and beloved forge, his haven of warmth and metal, he set off toward the heart of Stonehollow. The old boards of the bridge echoed comfortingly under his boots as he walked. In his mind, he was already imagining the friendly exchanges to come and the plump squashes that would soon fill his basket. In this tranquil corner of Eldenreach, it would be an ordinary errand on an ordinary day, and yet Ormund couldn’t shake a quiet thrill at the prospect of it. And so, humming his father’s tune once more, the blacksmith of Stonehollow headed into the village, the slow rhythm of life carrying him onward to whatever the new day would bring.
